The Third Victim (18 page)

Now he was even with the sidewalk leading to her door. The night before last, when he’d left the knife, he’d gone down this sidewalk. But now, today, he was walking nine paces beyond, then turning left. The basement door was straight ahead. The key was in his hand, as it had been last night. The tools were in his pocket. The flashlight was…

…
in the tray, in his room.

He’d left the flashlight behind. She’d forced him to forget the flashlight. Once before she’d sunk him in darkness. Now she’d done it again—one last time. She’d died to do it this time. The first time had been dark as death for him. This time death was dark for her. Forever.

Was he still walking?

No.

He was standing motionless, staring at the basement door. He could hear a soft, anxious sound. It was his own voice, protesting. Inside the basement, he couldn’t turn on the lights. When night came, he’d be alone in the dark. Without the flashlight, he’d be alone. Just as he’d been alone before—the first time, terrified. But he couldn’t turn back, couldn’t reverse directions. His forward movement was aligned. He couldn’t change it.

And so, slowly, the door was coming closer. The key was in the lock; the lock was snapping open. The door, softly squeaking, swung away from him.

The meter man was at work.

And Tarot, too.

Now, as the door swung shut, it was Tarot who stood in the dim light from the two high, barred windows. It was Tarot who hung the padlock so carefully on the nail—who now stood motionless, allowing his gaze to slowly circle the cellar.

Today, the dimness was different than the darkness last night. Today—now—he could clearly see the shapes around him: boxes piled high on boxes, three cubicles made of rough boards, one for each tenant, three garbage pails, each with a roughly painted number. Three and three and three.

Slowly he was walking down a narrow corridor. Boxes and cartons were piled high on both sides. A jungle of discarded lawn furniture tangled the space beside him. Last night, he’d come this way. He’d come slowly, half stumbling, following a narrow, pale lightbeam. Now he walked easily. Everything was visible. To Tarot, it was all clear. Ahead, straight ahead, three steps rose to the rear door, leading into the backyard. On the outside, the door was padlocked. Already Tarot had seen the padlock. Days, weeks ago. It was a Master lock, like the one in front. Tarot remembered.

On the left, four steps rose to meet the kitchen door—
her
kitchen door. Slowly, soundlessly, Tarot was climbing the stairs. Tarot’s hand was reaching forward. The knob was slowly turning, releasing the latch—revealing that, yes, the door was locked. Since last night, nothing had changed.

Except Tarot.

For Tarot, everything had changed. Today, death lay behind him—death, and danger. So he could only move forward. Leaving his house, blood-puddled now, he couldn’t go back. Leaving the bench at the beach, he could never return. And tonight, when he—

Upstairs, a phone was ringing. Footsteps followed the sound—quick, light footsteps. The boy was running above him. Somehow the boy was—

A man’s voice called out; the boy’s voice answered. Heavy, slow-moving steps creaked close overhead, going toward the front of the house. The boy was in the living room, answering the phone. The man was following.

Who? What man?

Cautiously, he was following the trail of their sounds. First the boy, then the man. And finally Tarot, moving beneath them. The Devil moved beneath the ground—the Devil, and worms. And Tarot, too. Because they were invisible, all three. In hell, black-burned flesh split and crackled. In the grave, worms wriggled through eyeless sockets. In—

Another bell. Was it the doorbell?

Was it
her?

The light, scurrying footsteps followed this bell too. But boxes and crates blocked the path to the place beneath the front door. So he must stand motionless again, listening. The phone was dropping into its cradle. But now there was a new voice. It was a deep voice—a man’s. Two men and the boy.

Two men?

Who?

Policemen?

Had policemen come here last night? Had they returned today?

The door he’d entered was unlocked. Closed, but not locked. But the other two basement doors were locked. If they came through the unlocked door, they would trap him—surely, certainly trap him. Even with the knife, now in his hand, they could trap Tarot. Handcuff him. Take Tarot away, to kill him.

He was slowly, cautiously edging between a packing box and a broken-legged picnic table, upended. If worms and the Devil moved in silence, invisible, so could Tarot. Cardboard could be rock, dust could be dirt. The garbage was flesh, rotting in graves. Above, the two heavy male voices still rumbled. He was wedged beside a teetering cardboard wardrobe, struggling through. Behind the wardrobe, hidden, he could see a huge wooden box, almost empty. A cleated wooden top leaned against the box. First one leg went cautiously over the side, then the other. Between his feet, paper crackled in the box’s bottom. Crouching, he pulled the top of the box up to rest on his shoulders. As he lowered himself, the box slowly closed.

In this box—in this small, dark space—Tarot was safe. Here, they would never find him.

Except for the darkness, and the monsters remembered, Tarot was safe.

This policeman too had a notebook. Kevin watched Connoly’s frown deepen as the detective stared down at the small blue notebook, spiral-bound. For almost a half-hour, Connoly had been questioning him. First Connoly had politely suggested that Josh be sent to his room. Then, just as politely—but just as firmly—Connoly began the interrogation. At first, the questions had been deceptively casual. Pretending merely a mild puzzlement, Connoly had “wanted to get it straight.” How was it, again, that Kevin happened to be out so late last night, walking? How did it happen that his wife, estranged, hadn’t been expecting him—that, in fact, she’d been in bed, with all the lights out?

His answers, he knew, sounded unconvincing. Even to his own ears, his explanations were lame. It was as if he were drawing a picture of himself, but Connoly was guiding his hand. Involuntarily, he’d described an unfaithful husband who’d deserted his wife and son for another woman.

Then, while he was still struggling to correct the picture, Connoly had shifted his ground. How long had it been since his marriage had gone wrong? Two months? Three? Somewhere between the two, he’d answered. Three months ago, the real problems had started. He’d moved out a little more than two months ago.

Just about the time, Connoly had observed mildly, that the first of Tarot’s victims had been found. Marie Strauss, strangled in her bed.

Indignantly, he’d protested. He’d heard himself make all the standard disclaimers: that Connoly was falsely accusing him, that he’d get a lawyer, that he paid taxes. And, besides, he was an intellectual, not a murderer.

At the last protest, Connoly’s stiff, humorless mouth seemed almost tempted to smile. Some authorities, it seemed, thought Tarot was an intellectual, judging by the style and content of his letters.

Slowly, incredulously, Kevin shook his head. “I can’t believe this. I really can’t. I know it’s your job to suspect everyone. I accept that. But, Jesus, this Tarot’s a nut.”

“True,” came the dispassionate answer. “But in my business one of the first things you learn is that a lot of nuts look a lot like ordinary people.”

“I realize that. But, Jesus, it—it’s so
illogical.
Like, why would I have been under her window, anyhow?”

The detective’s only response was a silent, impassive stare. Then: “Do you have a car, Mr. Rossiter?”

“No, not really. I mean, my wife has the car. It’s that Chevrolet, out in front.”

“Do you have a motorcycle?”

“A motorcycle?”

Connoly’s bullet head inclined, stoically nodding in reply.

“No, I don’t.”

“Have you ever had a motorcycle?”

“In San Francisco, I had one.”

“What kind was it, Mr. Rossiter?”

“A Honda.”

“How many cc’s, do you know?”

He shrugged. “It wasn’t very big. I forget. A hundred fifty, maybe.”

“Was it a step-through design?”

Frowning, he asked, “You mean where there’s no crossbar? Like a woman’s bicycle?”

Again Connoly was nodding slowly, almost indifferently. As the interview went on, Connoly appeared progressively more bored, his manner suggesting that he already knew the answers, before he’d asked the questions. Yet always the other man’s eyes were covertly watchful.

“No, it wasn’t that kind. It had a regular gas tank.”

“I see.” A short, reflective pause. Then: “You didn’t happen to notice a motorcycle like that—a motorbike, really—in the neighborhood last night, did you?”

“No, I didn’t. Why?”

“You’re sure? Absolutely sure?”

“Absolutely.”

Another pause, longer this time. And now, faithful to the interrogation’s unpredictable pattern, Connoly again shifted his attack: “Did your wife mention anything to you about a switch-blade knife she found on the premises yesterday, Mr. Rossiter?”

“Yes, she did. Briefly. Do you want it?”

“Do you know where it is?”

“Yes.”

Eyes narrowing, Connoly momentarily hesitated. Then, still speaking casually: “I wasn’t aware that Mrs. Rossiter told you where she’d hidden the knife.”

“She didn’t tell me. I just happened to find it.”

“You were looking for it, you mean.”

“No. I just—just found it. Accidentally.”

“Did you handle the knife, when you found it?”

“Yes.” He frowned. “Why?”

Not replying, Connoly got to his feet, at the same time drawing a large clear plastic envelope from his pocket. “I’ll get the knife, and then I’ll be going. Which way is the kitchen?”

Also on his feet, Kevin gestured to the hallway. “That way. I’ll get it for you, if you like.”

“We can go together.” Already moving toward the hallway, Connoly raised the clear plastic envelope. “We have to be very careful about fingerprints, you know.”

Sitting with knees drawn up, back braced against the box, he could see the rough wooden floor above. It was her floor—the bottom of her floor. But it was the basement ceiling—his ceiling. Following the floor to the cement walls, he could see one of the small barred windows. He’d drawn the top of the box six inches back, so he could see the window. He could no longer hear the rumble of voices, but he could see the window light. It wasn’t a grave, then. If they came for him, he could cover himself over, not with earth, but with wood. All but an inch. The top must be back an inch, to let in the light. Because without the light—without the air—the box would be a grave, pitch black. So his mother would have won. Even lying with empty eyes staring off across the kitchen, she would have dropped him back into darkness—back where he’d first been lost, so long ago.

He’d opened his eyes to hear them shouting. Lying in his small, sweat-stinking bed, he’d heard the heavy sound of his father’s voice, shouting out threats. His mother’s voice, answering, was pitched higher. Her voice had first been angry, then frightened. As the sound of the blows began, she’d screamed, whimpered, finally begged. Always, when the blows began, he’d burrowed down among the blankets, hands tight to his ears.

And then the bedroom door had burst open. His mother had tumbled into the dark room, fallen to her knees, struggled to her feet. In the light from the hallway, her jaw-broken face had been a stranger’s, lopsided, bloodied. Screaming, she’d pawed at the tangled blankets until she’d finally found him. Trailing a long white bedsheet across the littered floor, she’d carried him out into the blinding light of the hallway, staggering. His father’s figure had loomed suddenly, reeling toward them. He’d felt the shock of a blow crashing into his mother’s body, felt himself falling with her, striking the floor. Looking up, he’d seen his father’s foot swinging forward to crash into his mother’s body, lying close beside him. Crawling, he’d reached the first door—a closet door. Inside the pitch-black closet, listening, he’d heard nothing but the wet, heavy sound of breathing, just outside the door. Was it his mother, dying? Was it his father, panting like a raging animal?

He couldn’t cry out—couldn’t sob. He could only lie on the floor, eyes fixed on the line of light at the bottom of the door. The darkness surrounded him like something solid, pressing him down—like black, heavy dirt, shoveled into a grave.

He hadn’t heard the police come—hadn’t heard them taken away: his mother on a stretcher, unconscious, his father in handcuffs, a drunken, raving prisoner. When he’d opened his eyes, he could see only the blackness. Behind his eyes, in front of his eyes, the blackness was the same. The line of light at the bottom of the door came only with daytime. It had been two days, someone said, before they’d found him—two days before his mother could talk and tell them where to find him. When they’d come for him, one of the policemen, swearing, had said softly, “It’s like he’s an animal. A goddamn animal. Just smell him.”

They’d taken him to a shelter—to a tiny cubicle with white walls and a white floor. And when his mother had finally come for him, her head had been mummy-bandaged. She’d—

Footsteps were creaking close overhead—two pairs of heavy footsteps. The front door was opening. A man’s voice, rumbling, was saying, “Good-bye, Mr. Rossiter. I’ll be in touch.” Now the door was closing. The child’s footsteps were coming—lightly, swiftly.

Mr. Rossiter…

Her husband?

Had it been her husband last night, shouting in the darkness? Had her husband come back?

The others were moving out. Leaving. Afraid of Tarot, they were packing their belongings in boxes and barrels and moving out. But her husband had come back. Why?

TAROT HYSTERIA GRIPS CITY

Standing still now, directly above, the man and the boy were talking softly. The boy’s voice was high, excited. The man’s voice was lower, slower. They were talking about the beach—about time, about hurrying.

And about Tarot.

The boy’s voice, excited, was talking about Tarot. Other words, other phrases were lost. But “Tarot,” over and over, came clearly down through the floor.